


Take Shelter

by isnt_it_pretty



Series: It Smells of Sea Salt and your Father's Favourite Poison [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Big Brother Gerry, Elias Bouchard Raises Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias is a good parent AU, Elias is super evil but he loves his kids, Found Family, Gen, Gerry Week 2021 (The Magnus Archives), Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mary Keay's A+ Parenting, Panic Attacks, Protective Elias Bouchard, Suicidal Thoughts, and also Gerry, really mild though, that isnt a real tag but it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:48:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29741763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isnt_it_pretty/pseuds/isnt_it_pretty
Summary: On a freezing Feburary night, the last person Gerry Keay expects to help him is Elias Bouchard.Day six of Gerry Week.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Elias Bouchard
Series: It Smells of Sea Salt and your Father's Favourite Poison [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2185935
Comments: 1
Kudos: 26





	Take Shelter

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is a segment on a Jon/Martin AU I'm planning, where Elias adopts Jon, and Peter Lukas adopts Martin. Both of them turn out to be shockingly loving parents. Since I had planned this to happen in that AU, but didn't plan on writing it in it, I decided to write it up for day six of Gerry Week! This particular work is set in 2001.
> 
> Prompts healing, family, and choice.
> 
> Follow me on [ Tumblr! ](https://isnt-it-pretty.tumblr.com/)   
> Credit to Bresby for beta reading!

It’s raining as seventeen-year-old Gerard Keay walks down the frigid London streets. He’s in nothing but a black hoodie, despite the rare subzero temperatures — courtesy of an unusually cold weather system that has moved over the country since yesterday. Ice sheets everything, making for hazardous outdoor conditions.

The streets are emptier than Gerry has ever seen them, and he spares a thought to wonder if the Lonely has finally caught up with him. It wouldn’t be surprising, all things considered. He has nowhere to go but home, with a woman who barely constitutes as a mother. Mum is far away now — as far as one can get while still being within the same city — but Gerry still feels her boney grip on his arm, the way her slap stung against his cheek. He doesn’t have to look to know that his cheek is purpling, and there are finger-shaped bruises against the pale skin of his wrist. It isn’t the first time she’s hit him, it isn’t even the worst, but Gerry just couldn’t  _ take it _ anymore. 

Of course, of all the days he could have decided to run away, today is perhaps the worst. He shivers as he walks aimlessly, his hoodie soaked through and turning to ice itself. His hair is frozen where his breath has been hitting it, a curling fog expelled from his lungs like the kind that follows every book belonging to the One Alone. His mum was right; he truly doesn’t have anywhere to go but back to her.

Maybe, if he stays out here in the cold, he’ll die. Wouldn’t that be nice? But no, he can’t die before mum. At least, not unless it's in a way where she can’t skin him. 

It’s getting hard to think — Gerry doesn’t know how long he’s been outside now, but the buses aren’t running, so it must have been a while to reach Chelesa from Morden. Maybe even longer than usual, considering the weather. Everything feels a little fuzzy, and Gerry is having trouble keeping himself upright through dizzy spells that are becoming more and more frequent. He’s just so  _ tired, _ in more ways than one. He was tired even before leaving home, a bone deep exhaustion that drags him downward until he feels like he’s drowning. All Gerry wants to do is sleep.

He’s not sure how much time has passed — long enough that he isn’t sure he’s shivering anymore, which Gerry distantly thinks is a bad thing, but he really can’t recall at the moment — when a car stops next to him.

It’s sleek and black, the kind of car people who make far more than Gerry’s mum does would drive. He knows very little about cars at the best of time, which certainly isn’t now — half frozen on the icy sidewalk — but Gerry knows wealth when he sees it.

The back window rolls down, revealing a man with short cropped hair. It’s hard to tell the exact colour in the shadows of the evening, but it’s something dark, like black or deep brown. His eyes though, that’s what draws Gerry’s attention. He has been dealing with horrors for a very long time — since before he even knew what they were. He’s met Avatars of several types, and he has handled books more dangerous than bombs. If there is one thing he knows, it’s when he’s standing in front of power. Those eyes? They speak of power. 

Dark grey, seeming to hold all the secrets of the universe, they seem older than they are. Beholding — even in his sluggish mind, Gerry can sense it.

“What do you want?” he tries to force out. He isn’t sure how successful he is, considering the way his words seem to be slurring, but if this man really does belong to the Eye, then he’ll know what Gerry means.

Sure enough, the man does. 

“To get you out of the cold,” he says, his accent speaking of a wealthy upbringing, as if the car wasn’t sign enough of that. 

“Fuck off,” Gerry snaps, but it comes out more exhausted than anything. “Won’t let you feed on me.”

The man rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Gerard. If I wanted that, I’d hardly insist on getting your filth on my car seats. Now, it’s rather cold, so would you  _ please _ get in the car before you die of hypothermia?”

Any other time, Gerry would have refused. He has no idea who this man is, other than that he’s wealthy and belongs to Beholding. It’s a bad idea, but so was running out of his house in subzero weather. 

Besides, if this man kills him, he’ll likely have the decency to ensure Gerry doesn’t end up skinned and trapped in a book.

He nods, and takes a step toward the vehicle. 

The door opens, and Gerry sees the man sliding over to another seat. The interior is nice, dark leather seats and lacquered wood veneer cover every surface. It’s warm as Gerry settles in, almost uncomfortably so. 

Inside, he can see the man better. He’s wearing a three-piece suit in what appears to be a deep, navy blue, and his hair is indeed dark brown.

“Sir?” a voice says, and Gerry looks up to meet the uneasy gaze of the driver in the front seat. It's the first time he’s noticed somebody else, which really should be a bad sign, but Gerry is too tired to care. Of course this man has a driver, he’s sitting in the backseat after all.

“Home,” the man orders, barely paying attention. His voice carries the authority of a man used to being obeyed. He reaches over Gerry to pull the door closed, which he had apparently forgotten about. Turning his attention back to Gerry, the man stops. “You need to get this off,” he says, motioning to the old, ratty hoodie like it's carrying some deadly pathogen. He sounds different from when he spoke to the driver — softer. “You’ll catch your death sitting here like this.”

When Gerry doesn’t make any movement to do as he’s been told, the man sighs with a hint of impatience. 

“Would you allow me to help you remove it? Just the hoodie,” the man’s hands are poised to help, but apparently not touching without permission. “Gerard?” he prompts when there’s no response.

“Gerry,” he corrects, but nods anyway.

The man takes a hold of the damp, slightly iced fabric and begins moving it off Gerry’s boney shoulders. It takes some patience and clever maneuvering to peel it off while sitting against a seat, but Gerry simply has no energy to help. The hoodie is tossed unceremoniously to the floor of the car after being removed, landing with a quiet  _ thump.  _ The bruises across Gerry’s arms are visible now, in various stages of healing and an assortment of colours, but the man says nothing about them. Instead, he leans back.

Gerry lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, although he isn’t sure whether it's from relief that this man didn’t mention the bruises or that he didn’t inflect any more of them. 

He’s vaguely aware that the man next to him has a cell phone out and is speaking to somebody. 

Really, Gerry shouldn’t be surprised to find that this man, who wears wealth like armour, has a cell phone, considering even mum had given Gerry one a few months ago. After all, it’s easier to track down Leitner's when he doesn’t need to find a payphone to report back in. The blocky device was left on the messy floor of his cramped bedroom, unneeded when trying to escape her. 

The man sounds angry, and even though Gerry feels like his head is full of cotton, he manages to make out that the man is talking to somebody about work. In the front seat, the driver’s eyes flick nervously at them through the rearview mirror. 

“Can you stay awake, Gerry?” the man asks, and Gerry blinks his eyes open. The man is no longer on the phone, and his tone has returned to the soft, coaxing words he was using before.

Oh. Gerry must have started falling asleep. That makes sense, he really is tired, but now the man is looking at him, with those grey eyes pinning him like a live butterfly to a board. He feels trapped by those eyes, like they’re seeing all of him, which they probably are. Damn watchers.

The man lets out a little laugh, which means he definitely heard that thought.

“You can rest soon, alright?” he tells Gerry. “We’re only a couple minutes away from my house, and then you can change into something warm and sleep.”

Both of those things sound good.

The rest of the ride passes in a haze of fatigue. By the time the vehicle stops, Gerry is shivering again — when had he stopped? — and his limbs are prickling with pins and needles. The man removes a winter jacket, and passes it to Gerry. 

“We need to keep you warm, alright?” he says, waiting for any response.

Once again, Gerry doesn’t respond other than to nod. His fingers are shaking too much to get the jacket on, and he’s too tired to fight through it.

The man takes the jacket, and slowly helps Gerry’s shaking arms through the holes. Only when it's fully on does he zipped it up.

“My name is Elias, by the way,” he says, answering the looming question in Gerry’s mind that he hadn’t even realized he had.

Elias gets out of the car, letting in a blast of cold air. He closes it quickly, and Gerry watches as he walks around to the other side to open Gerry’s door. 

The houses he is standing in front of don’t look all that different from the ones he passed in Chelsea, which means he’s either still in that neighbourhood, or in one surrounding it. 

“Watch your step,” Elias tells him, and he walks up to one of the row houses. The building is several stories covered in beautiful white stucco, with blanket-covered flower boxes just inside the wrought iron gate. 

Gerry follows slowly, and tries to ignore Elias’ eyes on him as he does. It doesn’t feel malicious, but he doesn’t have the mental space to parse through anything else. The door at the top of the steps is a dark green, and Gerry can see the gentle glow of lights on inside through sheer white curtains covering the tall arched windows. 

The door opens before they even reach the top of it, revealing a gangly boy, only a few years younger than Gerry. His skin is a few shades darker than Elias’, as is his black, messy hair, while his eyes are bright green. He’s dressed in a warm-looking emerald green jumper thrown over what looks like soft pajamas.

As they enter, the boy hands Elias a knit blanket, and scurries away from the cold of the entryway. Gerry allows Elias to remove the jacket from him, watching with a muted curiosity — and replaces it with the blanket.

It's warm and soft, seemingly well loved where Gerry feels it against his hands. He wonders who made it — certainly not Elias. Gerry may not know him, but the man doesn’t look like the kind to have the time to knit an entire blanket. 

Elias lets Gerry lean on him to take off his ratty trainers, which seem out of place in the opulent house.

“Come on,” Elias tells him quietly. “Jon grabbed some clothes that should fit you.” He holds out an arm in case Gerry needs it for balance, but it's unneeded. 

Gerry manages to make his way into what appears to be the living room unaided. He’s still cold — shivering violently — but it's better than it had been before. He can’t have been with Elias for more than a half hour, if that, but it already feels like so much time has passed since walking down the frozen streets. 

If he were more aware, thinking more logically, Gerry would probably be terrified. There are few good statistics around minors who are moved to a secondary location after being taken off the street. He recalls Elias telling him that he has no plans on feeding him the Beholding, or he would have simply done it there in the street, but he’s only survived this long by being cautious. There’s a good chance that Elias knows what he’s thinking, too, since the man has already proven that he can read Gerry’s thoughts, but he hasn’t said anything about it since they’ve gotten out of the car. Instead, Elias motions to the cream coloured sofa. There’s some folded clothing there, what seems to be a shirt, a jumper, and a pair of joggers. 

“We’re similar enough in size that those should fit,” Elias tells him. “There’s a washroom just through there,” he points to a door next to a large, overflowing bookshelf. “You can get changed and come back out here. I’ll make tea in the meantime.”

Gerry does as he’s told, based purely on instinct. Obedience is something his mum had drilled into his skull over and over, a lesson learned from a young age through more than just words. It’s easy to just listen to directions, especially when his brain is still foggy and his limbs ache with cold.

The clothes are soft when he puts them on, but not the kind of softness that comes from regular wearing. Instead, they feel as if they were purchased that way. The joggers are a deep burgundy, while the short-sleeved shirt is black, and the jumper is cream and cable knit — not at all scratchy, like the ones he has at home.

He exits the washroom, the knit blanket still wrapped around his shoulders, to find Elias sitting on the sofa. In front of him is a marble coffee table which Gerry had previously ignored. It now holds two mugs of tea, a small pitcher of cream, and a porcelain bowl of sugar cubes. The bowl is odd - beautifully painted flowers which match the pitcher, but seemed together with gold.

“It’s called kintsugi,” Elias says, glancing up with Gerry’s questioning look. “It's a Japanese art of repairing broken pottery using lacquer mixed with gold or silver powders. The bowl was an antique. When it broke I couldn’t bear to part with it, so I had it fixed. I think it’s more beautiful now, don’t you think?”

“Uh, y-yeah,” Gerry manages through the shivering.

Elias smiles, and motions to the sofa, where piles of blankets wait. Gerry can’t help the look of relief he knows passes his face. He moves slowly, settling down. The sofa is comfortable, possibly more so than Gerry’s own bed.

Carefully, Elias holds up his hands. “I’m just going to help wrap the blanket around you. Is that alright?” He doesn’t move his hands until Gerry nods his consent, but even when he does, Elias ensures to keep them in Gerry’s sightline as much as possible. He pulls aside the knit blanket, and wraps a soft brown one around Gerry’s shoulders, and makes sure that it's wrapped around his back and stomach. After that, he lets the knit settle on top. “It’s a heated blanket,” Elias tells him, “it will help heat up your core faster.” He then hands a remote control to Gerry. 

It's odd to be given so much choice, Gerry thinks. At home, mum wouldn’t have cared about pointless things like asking for his permission or letting him set his own temperature. Then again, she probably wouldn’t have bothered to bundle him up in a heated blanket anyway.

“Here,” Elias passes him a mug of tea, the colour a milky brown.

He cradles the tea in his cold hands, and sips on it. It's perfect, as Gerry had made it himself. 

“Did you-?” he asks, looking up surprised.

Elias smiles, looking immensely satisfied with himself.

“ _ Know _ your tea preference?” another voice asks, and Gerry looks up to see the boy again. He’s holding a large first aid kit in his hands, and looking almost exasperatedly as Elias. “Yeah, he does that.” 

“Jon,” Elias says, almost scolding but not quite. He beckons the boy forward, who seems nervous in Gerry’s company. He comes though, and passes the first aid kit to Elias, before retreating back out of the room. When he’s gone, Elias turns his attention back to Gerry. “My son,” he says as explanation. 

Gerry watches as Elias unzips the first aid kit. He removes a roll of elastic bandages, and places them on the table, along with a tube of some kind of cream. He then pushes the kit away, and turns back to Gerry. 

“Would you like me to wrap your ankle, or would you rather do it yourself?” he asks, holding the elastic bandages. 

Again, another choice, but Gerry creased his eyebrows. “My ankle?” he asks, confusion lacing his tone. His ankle is fine, a little sore from walking for so long, but fine.

Elias frowns, “it's sprained,” he says, motioning to it. “You didn’t notice?”

With his own frown, Gerry shifts. He glances down at his ankle, lifting the joggers slightly to get a better look. Sure enough, the outside of his right ankle is swollen and purple. He blinks, and becomes vaguely aware of a distance, pulsing pain. 

“Oh,” he says, his mouth numb. “I guess I didn’t notice.”

Elias doesn’t say anything, but holds up the bandages.

“You, um,” Gerry starts. “You can do it.”

“Alright,” Elias says, dropping to kneel on the ground. He guides Gerry’s ankle to rest against his thigh, far more gentle than even mum has touched him in a long time. Slowly, while narrating every movement, Elias spreads the cream along Gerry’s ankle. “Arnica,” he explains as he does. “It’s good for swelling and bruises.” He puts a thin, square patch of gauze on top, and mutters about it keeping the bandages from sticking to the skin.

It's odd. Gerry isn’t used to physical contact being anything but painful. Elias though, is careful. He always makes sure that Gerry knows what he’s doing, where his hands are. It's unnecessary — mum never did such a thing, and would probably call it a weakness to desire it — but, well, it's  _ nice. _

By the time Elias is finished, Gerry almost feels human again. The blanket is warm around him, along with the mostly drank tea in his hands. There’s still pins and needles coursing through his limbs, but it isn’t as bad in his leg anymore. That feeling must have been the sprain then, he figures.

“I can put it on your bruises, if you’d like,” Elias says, holding up the arnica cream. “It should help them fade quicker.”

Gerry swallows but nods. It's more nerve-wracking this time, since Elias is closer than he was when tending to Gerry’s ankle. Still, Elias goes slow, and doesn’t mind when he flinches. Instead, Elias just stops, pulling back until the brief moment of quickened breath fades. Gerry doesn’t have to tell him not to touch the bruise on his face though. Elias seems to know that is a line without asking, probably because of his freaky Eye powers, but either way Gerry is thankful for it. All in all, it doesn’t take long before Elias is putting the cream aside and handing Gerry two pills of paracetamol.

He finishes off his tea to wash down the pills and lets Elias take the mug. 

“Thank you,” Gerry mutters, burrowing comfortably into the heat of the blankets. 

“It’s almost eleven,” Elias says, packing things away instead of replying. “There’s a guest bedroom upstairs. Would you rather sleep there, or stay here?”

“Um, here is fine,” he responds. It really is comfortable, and Gerry thinks he’s probably half asleep anyway.

Elias nods, stepping away with the first aid kit. He’s left the paracetamol and arnica cream out though. “I’ll be back with linens.”

Had so much time really passed? It was around 7:30pm when Gerry left home — perhaps a bit earlier — and he can’t have been here for more than an hour. Chelsea is about two and a half hours away from Morden on foot, but he must have been a bit slower in the weather and with an apparently sprained ankle, so he supposes that makes sense.

It only takes a moment for Elias to return. He has three pillows and a sheet in his arms, which he settes on the coffee table. 

Gerry stands awkwardly, allowing Elias to spread out a sheet, tucking it carefully into the cushions. Afterward, he piles a pillow on each end of the sofa, leaving one on the coffee table. “You can grab the third if you would like it, but you should keep your ankle elevated,” Elias tells him as Gerry sits back down. “I’ll grab you a water bottle for tonight, but do you need anything else?”

Honestly? This is more than Gerry gets at home. He shakes his head, and adjusts himself until his injured ankle is resting on the pillow.

He’s asleep before Elias even puts the water bottle on the coffee table.

* * *

Gerry wakes slowly. That’s odd in itself — usually mum wakes him up at odd hours, needing him to chase down a Leitner or run the shop for her while  _ she _ chases down a Leitner. Maybe she already tried to and he’d slept in? Christ, if that happened Gerry is good as dead.

Blinking his eyes open, he realizes with a start that this is not his bedroom. For starters, there’s no way the sun could filter into his room like it does here — gentle and warm, but also, his walls aren’t painted cream, nor is his ceiling  _ nearly _ this tall.

It takes a moment to reorientate himself and remember the evening before. 

Right. He had fought with mum, again, something that always ended with at least some measure of pain. Then he’d left, out into the freezing London streets, and - ah. The beholder, Elias, had helped him. That again is odd — Beholders don’t tend to like him very much, Well, most avatars don’t, but Beholders perhaps most of all.

Suddenly, it hits him.  _ Elias,  _ as in Elias  _ Bouchard, _ head of the  _ Magnus Institute. _ Oh Christ, mum is going to kill him.

He doesn’t realize he’s panicking until suddenly somebody is next to him. Gerry flinches. Mum has no patience for this sort of thing, but whoever it is doesn’t touch him. Instead, they kneel next to him, keeping their hands in his view. It takes a while to fight down the spiraling panic at waking up in the living room of somebody his mother despises. 

Eventually, the buzzing in his ears recedes enough that he can make out the words being spoken to him. 

“-kay, she can’t hurt you here, she can’t even find you, okay? Nobody is going to hurt you.” That’s Elias, coaxing him through a panic attack. Oh fuck, what has his life even come to? “Gerry, I need you to stop that, okay? You’re hurting yourself.”

His eyes snap open — when had he closed them? — and Gerry looks down to find his fingernails digging into his arm, there’s a couple pearls of blood where he has managed to puncture skin. Quickly, Gerry drops his arm.

“There you are,” Elias mutters quietly, pressing a mug of tea into Gerry’s shaking hands. “Just breathe alright? Deep as you can.”

Gerry nods, trying to force air into his protesting lungs. His entire body is trembling, but Elias hasn’t gotten any closer. Some part of Gerry — the part that counts how many exists are in a room, that always knows the number of people, possible weapons, possible ways to be hurt — is aware that the boy, Jon, who is apparently the  _ son _ of  _ Elias Bouchard, _ is standing in the doorway, wringing his hands nervously. Jesus Christ, this is humiliating. 

The tea, at least, is grounding. He tries to focus on that when Elias tells him to, focus on the  _ feeling _ of the tea in his hands. The way the smooth mug feels against his skin, the heat radiating through it and into his palms, even the warmth and weight of the blankets against his body, and the way the sofa cradles him. It makes the buzzing in his body fade a little, like he’s being pulled back in. 

He doesn’t know how much time has passed when he can finally breathe again. The tea is still warm enough to sip at, which he’s thankful for. Looking up, he meets Elias’ eyes and tries not to flinch. They aren’t quite so piercing as the night before, but there is no mistaking Elias Bouchard as anything but a Watcher. 

“Sorry,” he manages to mutter, feeling his face colouring as he does. 

Elias waves his apology away, but he pitches his voice low as he speaks. “You’d be surprised by the amount of panic attacks we get here.” 

Gerry may not be one of the Beholding’s own, but he doesn’t need to be in order to know that Elias is not talking about himself. 

“How about you come eat?” Elias asks, standing. “We’re making waffles this morning.”

He lets himself be coaxed out of the living room and into the kitchen. 

There’s a glass bowl of batter sitting on the counter, surrounded by ingredients. There’s a dusting of flour beneath it, and Gerry finds himself thrown off by it. Elias seems so put together, living in this giant, opulent house. He doesn’t seem like the type to want a mess, and yet here one is — a clear sign that this home is lived in. 

Jon is there now, although Gerry isn’t sure how long it had been since Jon left the living room. He’s dressed again in an oversized jumper and a pair of comfortable trousers. There’s flour on him as well, dusting the jumper. His hair is less messy compared to the previous night, but not by much. 

Elias motions to the kitchen table, which is made of deep wood. Gerry sits, quietly observing as Elias moves into the kitchen. There’s a twinge of jealousy when Jon relinquishes the bowl to his father with practiced ease — like this is just something they  _ do,  _ cooking together, eating together. 

There’s a juxtaposition here. Mum has told Gerry about Elias Bouchard, but everything she’s said is so different from what he’s seeing here. Logically, he knows that Elias is evil — he serves the Ceaseless Watcher wholly and willingly, but it’s hard to reconcile that knowledge with the image of the man making waffles with his son. 

Slowly, more and more waffles are made. They’re slipped into the heated oven to keep them warm, but eventually there’s an entire plate full of them being set on the centre of the table. Jon carries butter and syrup, setting them down as well. Three places were already made up with plates and cutlery. 

Jon moves into the seat furthest from Gerry, while Elias sits between the two. Some absurd part of Gerry expects Elias to lead some kind of prayer to the Ceaseless Watcher, like Catholics do to their god before eating, but that doesn’t happen. Rather, Jon reaches forward and stabs a few waffles with a fork before dragging them onto his plate. He seems to be doing his best not to look in Gerry’s direction.

Elias passes him the syrup, and Gerry can see the maple leaf on the glass bottle. 

“Imported from Canada,” Elias tells him, which again, isn’t surprising. Half this house is probably made of expensive imports or antiques. 

Gerry stays silent through the meal and listens as Elias engages Jon in conversation. He learns that Jon is on break from Eton. That, at least, explains why Elias is  _ here _ rather than at work running his shrine to the Beholding. Jon, apparently, isn’t a fan of the school, no matter how prestigious it is. Gerry gets the feeling that there’s more to it than he can see here, but that’s fine. He isn’t one of the Watcher’s. As curious as he may be, he doesn’t  _ need _ to know. Looking for secrets, trying to figure things out, is a good way to get yourself killed. Besides, as kind as Elias is being, as loving as he seems with his son, Gerry is still a sheep in a lair of wolves. He is the son of Mary Keay, he has been raised to fear the monsters that lurk behind smiles. Elias has some ulterior motive, he  _ has  _ to. Mum would never help somebody like this unless there was something in it for her.

They finish eating, and Elias shoos Jon away from the dishes, telling him to go read something. The boy easily leaves, and Gerry can see him disappearing up the stairs. 

As he does, Elias starts collecting the plates. He puts the few leftover waffles on the counter before beginning to rinse the dirty dishes. 

“It’s alright,” Elias says after a moment. “You can ask.”

Gerry only blinks.  _ Ask what? _

“I haven’t been looking,” Elias continues, “not since this morning, but I can practically feel the questions you have.” Elias doesn’t volunteer anything else. Instead, he puts the rinsed plates into a dishwasher — and isn’t Gerry jealous of  _ that. _ His house barely has enough room for a sink, let alone a dishwasher. 

“What do you want from me?” Gerry settles on asking.

“Nothing,” is the easy answer, confident. 

Gerry is good at telling when people are lying. He’s had to be, but he has no idea about Elias. The Eye isn’t keen on misdirection, but that doesn’t mean that the avatar standing in front of him has the same problems with it. Avatars usually still have their own free will after all — or something similar enough to count. 

Elias sighs, turning to lean against the light granite countertops. “Believe it or not, I didn’t seek you out. Usually I take time off work when Jon is on break from school, but yesterday was unavoidable. I was on my way home when I saw you, but I Knew who you were. I have encountered Mary Keay enough times to know what kind of person she is, what kind of  _ parent _ she is. The choices were to ignore you, and let you either die of exposure or go back to her, or bring you here. I chose the latter.”

“But  _ why?  _ Why bother? Why do you care?”

There’s silence for a moment, before Elias continues. “Perhaps I wouldn’t have once, but things have changed.” Gerry is smart enough to pick up on the underlying meaning of that — Jon. “Satisfied?”

He nods, fidgeting with his fingers. It's a nervous habit that mum has always hated, but Elias doesn’t mention it.

They stay in the quiet kitchen for a while. Gerry isn’t sure where to go from here, and Elias is still cleaning up breakfast.

“You don’t have to go back you know,” Elias says once he finishes turning on the dishwasher. He walks over and braces his hands against one of the chairs, watching Gerry softly. “You don’t have to go anywhere you don’t feel safe.”

Safe. What even is that? Has he ever been safe? Gerry looks down, staring at the hands in his lap. They’re covered in knicks and small scars — signs of hunting Leitner’s since childhood. “I don’t have anywhere to go. I don’t belong anywhere but home,” he says quietly, almost ashamed.

“Well, you’re welcome to stay in our spare room for as long as you’d like,” Elias tells him as he walks toward the table. “I can promise that your mother won’t bother you here.”

Of everything Elias has said, Gerry believes that most of all. For all mum’s power, a true avatar will beat her every time, and what help would the police be when he’s legally old enough to leave? Christ, Gerry has wanted freedom for as long as he can remember. He’s run away time and time again, but there’s never been a place for him. Would this just be another chain to bind himself with? The Eye would be even harder to escape than his mother.

“You could leave anytime you want, of course,” Elias continues. He pats against the back of one of the chairs. “Just think about it.”

In the end, Gerry stays. He hides at the top of the stairs, holding Jon’s hand for comfort, as Elias tells Mary that she will never lay a hand on him again. Gerry is sure that the only reason she left the house alive is because Elias knows he doesn’t want his mum dead.

He watches with pride as Jon graduates secondary and sixth form, sits next to him and Elias as Jon opens his acceptance letter to Oxford. He holds Jon, tells him that there is nothing wrong with not liking sex, and smiles as he shakes the hand of his little brother’s first girlfriend. It’s good, better than good.

It’s family.


End file.
